Just Summer


  • Fantasy

    Poem Commentary

    I hate summer, but for some reason I always write about it. Winter is wonderful and white, but summer is bursting with color. There is only so much you can do with white. But color lasts forever.

    Just Summer

    Air escaped my lungs.
    filtered through each hole like a sponge.
    His touch was tender
    until metal met muscle.
    And his heart gave way.
    I counted each sun kissed petal
    that fluttered past the bees
    and landed on my dress.
    "He loves me,"
    "He loves me not."
    An injection of honey suckle makes the sting
    go away.
    He told me of bees and how
    when they sting you, they die.
    I hope it was worth it.
    Rain laps at green leaves
    and blades.
    As summer closes
    it's pollinated doors.

    By: Brandi Deacon


    Poem Comments


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    Darkfire commented on Just Summer


    I have but one word to describe this tender piece of carefully assembled phrases, Pacifism.



    Thank you...

    Artist commented on Just Summer


    To paint a picture with words is such a gift, one of which you have.



    Ahh... Thank you so much. :)

    soulwriter commented on Just Summer


    The metallic essence of your unique presence in this piece leave the reader wanting to experience more of your summer... in only a way that you can present the tastes of the exprerience! 10 ++



    Aww... Thank you so much! I love that people can enjoy my poetry.

    ginga commented on Just Summer


    Bullets, This is a poem of summer is intrinsic. You have exposed all that is inherently sensual and found a beautiful way to frame it with your words. I was wondering have you ever read: "Their Eyes Were Watching God" by Zora Neale Hurston? This poem certainly fits within the realm of Janie's story. I am saving this poem to my favorites. ginga



    I have never read that before. And thank you so much! It's an honor to have my simple writing saved to someone's favorites.

    SavVySam commented on Just Summer


    "His touch was tender until metal met muscle. And his heart gave way." Such a great line i this ode to Summer!



    Thank you so much. :)

    Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion.

    T. S. Eliot (1888-1965) American-English poet and playwright.

    BringMeBullets’s Poems (75)

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